 Rune 22 of the Kalevala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lunerot, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 22. The Brides Farewell. When the marriage was completed, when the many guests had feasted at the wedding of the Northland, at the dismal and carousel, spake the hostess of Poyola to the blacksmith Ilmarinen. Wherefore, bridegroom, dost thou linger? Why art waiting, Northland hero? Sitist for the father's pleasure, for affection of the mother, for the splendor of the maidens, for the beauty of the daughter. Noble son-in-law and brother, wait thou longer, having waited long already for the virgin binafianced, is not ready. Not prepared, thy life companion, only are her tresses braided. Chosen bridegroom, pride of Poyola, wait thou longer, having waited long already for the virgin, thy beloved is preparing. Only is one handmaid ready. Famous artist Ilmarinen, wait still longer, having waited long already for the virgin, thy beloved is not ready. Only is one foot in four shoes. Spake again the ancient Louis, chosen suitor of my daughter. Thou hast thrice in kindness waited, wait no longer for the virgin, thy beloved now is ready. Well prepared, thy life companion, fairy maiden of the rainbow. Beauty's daughter, join thy suitor, follow him thy chosen husband. Very near is the uniting, near indeed thy separation. At thy hand the honoured bridegroom, near the door he waits to lead thee. Guide thee to his home and kindred, at the gate his deed is waiting. Restless chaps his silver bridle, and the sledge awaits thy presence. Thou wart anxious for a suitor, ready to accept his offer. Wart in haste to take his jewels, place his rings upon thy fingers. Now fair daughter, keep thy promise, to his sledge with happy footsteps. High in haste to join the bridegroom, gaily journey to the village, with thy chosen life companion, with thy suitor Ilmarinen. Little hast thou looked about thee, hast not raised thy eyes above thee. Beauty is maiden of the Northland, hast thou made a rueful bargain, full of waiting, thine engagement, and thy marriage full of sorrow, that thy father's ancient cottage, thou art leaving now forever, leaving also friends and kindred for the blacksmith Ilmarinen. O how beautiful thy childhood in thy father's dwelling places, nurtured like a tender flower, like the strawberry in springtime. Soft thy couch and sweet thy slumber, warm thy fires and rich thy table. From the fields came corn and plenty, from the highlands milk and berries, wheat and barley in abundance, fish and foul and hair and bacon, from thy father's fields and forests. Never worked thou child in sorrow, never hadst thou grief nor trouble, all thy cares were left to fir trees, all thy worry to the corpses, all thy weeping to the willows, all thy sighing to the lindens, all thy thinking to the aspens, and the birches on the mountains, light and airy as the leaflet, as a butterfly in summer, ready as a mountain berry beautiful as vernal flowers. Now thou leaveest home and kindred, wanderst to other firesides, goest to another mother, other sisters, other brothers, goest to a second father, to the servant folk of strangers, from thy native hills and lowlands. There and here the homes will differ, happier thy mother's hearthstone, other horns will there be sounded, other portals there swing open, other hinges there be creaking. There the doors thou canst not enter like the daughters of Winola, canst not tend to the fires and ovens, as will please the minds of strangers. Didst thou think my ferris maiden thou couldst wed, and on the morrow couldst return, if thou shouldst wish it, to thy father's court and dwelling? Not for one, nor two, nor three days, wilt thou leave thy mother's chambers, leave thy sisters and thy brothers, leave thy father's hills and lowlands? Long the time the wife must wander, many months and years must wander, work and struggle all her life long, even though the mother liveth. Great indeed must be the changes when thou comest back to Poya, changed thy friends and nearest kindred, changed thy father's ancient dwellings, changed the valleys and the mountains, other birds will sing thy praises. When the mother thus had spoken, then the daughters spake departing. In my early days of childhood often I entoned these measures. Art of virgin yet no virgin guided by an aged mother in a brother's fields and forests in the mansion of a father, only wilt become a virgin only when thou hast a suitor, only when thou wets to hero one foot on the father's threshold, and the other for the snow sledge that will speed thee and thy husband to his native veils and highlands. I have wished thus many fomers, saying it often in my childhood, hoped for this as for the flowers welcome as the birds of springtime. Thus fulfilled are all my wishes, very near is my departure, one foot on my father's threshold and the other for the journey with my husband to his people. Cannot understand the reason that has changed my former feelings. Cannot leave thee now with gladness, cannot go with great rejoicing from my dear old home in Kindred, whereas maiden I have lingered from the courts where I was nurtured from my father's hand in guidance from my faithful mother's counsel. Now I go, a maid of sorrow heavy-hearted to the bridegroom, like the bride of night in winter, like the ice upon the rivers. Such is not the mind of others, other brides of Northland heroes, others do not leave unhappy, have no tears nor cares nor sorrows. I, alas, must weep and murmur, carry to my grave great sadness, hurt as dark as death's black river. Such the feelings of the happy, such the minds of merry maidens, like the early dawn of springtime, like the rising sun in summer, no such radiance awaits me with my young heart filled with terror. Happiness is not my portion, like the flat shore of the ocean, like the dark rift of the storm cloud, like the cheerless nights of winter. Dreary is the day in autumn, dreary too the autumn evening, still more dreary is my future. An industrious old maiden, ever-guarding home in Kindred, spake these words of doubtful comfort. Thus thou beauteous bride, remember, can't thou not recall my counsels? These the words of the poppy. Look not joyfully for suitors, never heed the tongues of wooers. Look not in the eyes of charmers, at their feet let fall thy vision. He that hath a mouth for sweetness, he that hath an eye for beauty, offers little that will comfort. Lempow sits upon his forehead in his mouth dwells dire tone. Thus fair bride, did I advise thee, thus advised my sister's daughter, should there come the best of suitors, noblest wooers, proudest lovers, all these wisdom sayings, let thine answer be as follows. Never will I think at wisdom, never will it be my pleasure to become a second daughter, linger with my husband's mother. Never shall I leave my father, never wander forth to bondage at the bidding of a bridegroom. Never shall I be a servant, wife and slave to any hero. Never will I be submissive to the orders of a husband. Fairest bride, thou didst not heed me, to the promises, didst not listen to my counsel. Whittingly thy feet have wandered into boiling tar and water, hasten to thy suitor's snow sledge to the bear dens of thy husband. On his sledge to be ill-treated carry to his native country to the bondage of his people, there a subject to his mother. Thou hast left thy mother's dwelling to the schooling of the master, hard indeed the master's teachings little else than constant torture. Ready for thee are his bridles, ready for thy bands the shackles, or not forged for any other. Soon indeed thou'd feel the hardness, feel the weight of thy misfortune, feel thy second father's censure, and his wife's inhuman treatment. Hear the cold words of thy brother quail before thy haughty sister. Listen, bride, to what I tell thee, in thy home thou art a jewel, work thy father's pride and pleasure. Moonlight did thy father call thee, and thy mother called thee sunshine. See, foam did thy brother call thee, and thy sister called thee flower. When thou leaveest home in Kindred goest to a second mother, often she will give thee censure, never treat thee as her daughter. Rarely will she give thee counsel, never will she sound thy praises. Brushwood will the father call thee, sledge of rags thy husband's mother, flight of stairs thy stranger brother, Scarecrow will the sister call thee. Sister of thy blacksmith husband, then wilt think of my good counsels, then wilt wish in tears and murmurs that as steam thou hadst ascended, that as smoke thy soul had risen, that as sparks thy life had vanished. As a bird thou can't not wander from thy nest to circle homeward, can't not fall and die like leaflets, as the sparks thou can't not perish. Like the smoke thou can't not vanish. Youthful bride and darling sister, thou hast bartered all thy friendships, hast exchanged thy loving father, thou hast left thy faithful mother for the mother of thy husband. Hast exchanged thy loving brother, hast renounced thy gentle sister for the kindred of thy suitor. Hast exchanged thy snow-white covers for the rocky couch of sorrow. Hast exchanged these crystal waters for the waters of Wynola. Hast renounced these sandy seashores for the muddy banks of Calu. Northland Glen's thou hast forsaken for thy husband's barren meadows. Thou hast left thy berry mountains for this stubble sea shore, for the muddy banks of Calu. Thou hast left thy berry mountains for this stubble fields and deserts. Thou have made and hast been thinking thou wouldst happy be in wedlock. Neither work nor care nor sorrow from this night would be thy portion with thy husband for protection. Not to sleep art thou conducted, not to happiness nor joyance. Wakefulness thy night companion and thy day attendant troubled. Often thou wilt drink of sorrow, often long for vanished pleasures. When at home thou hath no headgear, hathst also little sadness. When thy couch was not of linen, no one happiness came nivy. Headgear brings but pain and sorrow, linen breathes bad dispositions, linen brings but deeps of anguish, and the flecks untimely mourning. Happy in her home the maiden, happy at her father's fireside, like the master in his mansion happy with her bows and arrows. Tis not thus with married women, brides of heroes may be likened to the prisoners of Moskva held in bondage by their masters. As a wife must weep and labor, carry trouble on both shoulders. When the next hour passes over, thou must tend the fire and oven, must prepare thy husband's dinner, must direct thy master's servants. When thine evening meal is ready, thou must search for hidden wisdom in the brain of purgent salmon in the mouths of ocean-widing. Gather wisdom from the cuckoo, can't not learn it from thy mother, mother dear of seven daughters, cannot find among her treasures where were born the human instincts, where were born the minds of heroes, once arose the maiden's beauty, once the beauty of her tresses, why all life revives in springtime. Weep o weep, my pretty young bride, when thou weepest weep sincerely, weep great rivers from thine eyelids, floods of tears infield and fallow, lakelets in thy father's dwelling. Weep thy rooms to overflowing, shed thy tears in great abundance, lest thou weepest on returning to thy native hills and valleys, when thou visitest thy father in the smoke of weaning glory, on his arm a withered tassel. Weep o weep, my lovely maiden, when thou weepest weep in earnest, weep great rivers from thine eyelids, if thou dost not weep sincerely, thou wilt weep on thy returning to thy Northland home and kindred, when thou visitest thy mother old and breathless near the hurdles in her arms a barley bundle. Weep o weep, sweet bride of beauty, when thou weepest weep profusely, if thou dost not weep in earnest, thou wilt weep on thy returning to thy native veils and highlands when thou visitest thy brother, lying wounded by the wayside in his hand but empty honors. Weep o weep, my sister's daughter, weep great rivers from thine eyelids, if thou dost not weep sufficient, thou wilt weep on thy returning to the scenes of happy childhood when thou visitest thy sister, lying prostrate in the meadow in her hand a birch wood mallet. When the ancient maid had ended, then the young bride sighed in anguish, straight way fell to bitter weeping, spake these words in deeps of sorrow. O ye sisters, my beloved, ye companions of my childhood, playmates of my early summers, listen to your sister's counsel, cannot comprehend the reason why my mind is so dejected, why this weariness and sadness this untold and unseen torture cannot understand the meaning of this mighty weight of sorrow. Differently I had thought it, I had hoped for greater pleasures, I had hoped to sing as cuckoos on the hilltop's call and echo when I had attained this station, reached at last the goal expectant. But I am not like the cuckoo singing merry on the hilltops. I am like the songless blue duck as she swims upon the waters, swims upon the cold, cold, ocean, icicles upon her pinions. Ancient father, grey-haired mother, wither do ye wish to lead me, wither take this bride thy daughter that this sorrow may pass over, where this heavy heart may lighten, where this grief may turn to gladness. Better it had been, O mother, hath thou nursed a block of birchwood, hath thou clothed the colored sandstone rather than this hapless maiden, for the fullness of these sorrows for this keen and killing trouble. Many sympathizers tell me foolish bride, thou art ungrateful, do not grieve, thou child of sorrow, thou hast little cause for weeping. O deceive me not, my people, do not argue with me falsely, for alas, I have more troubles than the waterfalls have pebbles, than the Ingerland has willows, than the Suomi hills have berries. Never could the Poya ploughhorse pull this mighty weight of sorrow, shaking not his birch and crossbar, breaking not his heavy collar. Never could the Northland reindeer heavy shod and stoutly harnessed draw this load of care and trouble. Why the stova babe was playing, and the young child's bake as follows. Why, O fair bride, art thou weeping, why these tears of pain and sadness, leave thy troubles to the elk-herds and thy grief to sable fillies, let the steeds of iron bridles bear the burden of thine anguish. Horses have much larger foreheads, larger shoulders, stronger sinews, and their necks are made for labour, and their necks are made for labour. Stronger are their bones and muscles, let them bear thy heavy burdens, there is little good in weeping, useless are thy tears of sorrow. Art not led to swamps and lowlands, nor to banks of little rivers. Thou art led to fields of flowers, led to fruitful trees and forests, led away from beer of Poya to the sweeter mead of Kalu, at thy shoulder waits thy husband, on thy right-side eel marinen, constant friend and life protector, he will guard thyself from all evil. Husband ready, steed and wading, golden-silver-mounted harness, hazel-birds that sing and flutter on the coarsers' yoke and cross-bar. Threshers also sing in Twitter, merrily on Hame and Collar. Seven blue-birds, seven cuckoos sing thy wedding march in Concord. Be no longer full of sorrow, dry thy tears, thou bride of beauty, thou hast found a noble husband, better wilt thou fare than ever by the side of eel marinen, artist-husband, metal-master, bread-provider of thy table. On the arm of the fish-catcher, on the breast of the elk-hunter, by the side of the bear-kilmer, thou hast won the best of suitors, hast obtained a mighty hero, never idle is his crossbow, on the nails his quivers hang not. Neither are his dogs in kennel, active agents is his hunting. Thrice within the budding springtime in the early hours of morning, he arises from his fair couch, from his slumber in the brushwood. Thrice within the sowing season, on his eyes the deer has fallen, and the branches brushed his vesture and his locks been combed by furboughs. Hasten homeward with thy husband, where thy hero's friends await thee, where his forests sing thy welcome. Eel marinen there possesses all the birds that fly in mid-air, all the beasts that haunt the woodlands, all that feed upon the mountains, all that graze on hill and valley, sheep and cattle by the thousands, sweet the grass upon his meadows, sweet the barley in his uplands, in the lowlands corn abundant wheat upon the elmwood fallows, near the streamlets rye is waving, waving grain on many acres, on his mountains gold and silver, rich his minds of shining copper, highlands filled with magic metals, chests of jewels in his storehouse, all the wealth of Calabala. End of Rune 22, Recording by Jen Raimundo Rune 23 of the Calabala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Calabala, compiled by Elias Lunrott. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 23 Osmotar, the Bride Advisor. Now the Bride must be instructed who will teach the maid of beauty who instruct the rainbow daughter. Osmotar, the Wisdom Maiden, Calab's Fair and Lovely Virgin. Osmotar will give instructions to the Bride of Ilmarinen, to the Orphaned Bride of Poya, teach her how to live in pleasure, how to live and reign in glory, when her second mother's praises, joyful in her husband's dwelling. Osmotar, in modest accents, thus the anxious Bride addresses. Maid of beauty, lovely sister, tender plant of Luhay's Gardens. Hear thou what thy sister teaches. Listen to her sage instructions. Go thou hence, my much beloved, wander far away, my flower. Travel on and wrapped in colors. Stay in silks and ribbons. From this house renowned and ancient, from thy father's halls and courtyards, haste thee to thy husband's village, hasten to his mother's household. Strange the rooms in other dwellings. Strange the modes in other hamlets. Full of thought must be thy going, and thy work be well considered. Quite unlike thy home in Northland, on the meadows of thy father, on the highlands of thy brother, singing through thy mother's fennelins, culling daisies with thy sister. When thou goest from thy father, thou canst take whatever pleases. Only three things leave behind thee. Leave thy daydreams to thy sister. Leave thou kindness for thy mother. To thy brother leave thy labors. Take all else that thou desirest. Throw away thine cantations. Cast thy sighing to the pine trees, and thy maidenhood to zeffers. Thy rejoicings to the couches. Cast thy trinkets to the children, and thy leisure to the graybeards. Cast all pleasures to thy playmates. Let them take them to the woodlands, bury them beneath the mountain. Thou must hence acquire new habits. Must forget thy former customs. Father love must be forsaken. Thou must love thy husband's mother. Lower must thy head be bended. Kind words only must thou utter. Thou must hence acquire new habits. Must forget thy former customs. Father love must be forsaken. Thou must love thy husband's father. Lower must Thy head be bended. Kind words only must thou utter. Thou must hence acquire acquire new habits, must forget thy former customs, brother love must be forsaken, thou must love thy husband's brother, lower must thy head be bended, kind words only must thou utter. Thou must hence acquire new habits, must forget thy former customs, sister love must be forsaken, thou must love thy husband's sister, lower must thy head be bended, kind words only must thou utter. Never in the course of ages, never while the moonlight glimmers, wickedly approach thy household, nor unworthily thy servants, nor thy courts with indiscretion. Let thy dwellings sing good manners, and thy walls re-echo virtue, after mind the hero searches. And the best of men seek honor, seek for honesty and wisdom, if thy home should be immoral, if thine inmates fail in virtue, then thy greybeards would be black dogs, in sheep's clothing at thy firesides. All thy women would be witches, wicked witches in thy chambers, and thy brothers be as serpents, crawling through thy husband's mansion, all thy sisters would be famous for their evil thoughts and conduct. Equal honors must be given to thy husband's friends and kindred. Lower must thy head be bended, than within thy mother's dwelling, than within thy father's guest-room, when thou didst thy kindred honor. Ever strive to give good counsel, wear a countenance of sunshine, bear a head upon thy shoulders, filled with wise and ancient sayings. Open bright thine eyes at morning, and behold the silver sunrise. Sharpen well thine ears at evening, thus to hear the rooster crowing. When he makes his second calling, straightway thou must rise from slumber. Let the aged sleep in quiet. Should the rooster fail to call thee? Let the moonbeams touch thine eyelids. Let the great bear be thy keeper. Often go thou and consult them. Call upon the moon for counsel. Ask the bear for ancient wisdom. From the stars divine thy future. When the great bear faces southward, when his tail is pointing northward, this is time to break with slumber. Seek for fire within the ashes. Place a spark upon the tinder. Blow the fire through all the fuel. If no spark is in the ashes, then go wake thy hero husband. Speak these words to him on waking. Give me fire, O my beloved. Give a single spark, my husband. Strike a little fire from Flintstone. Let it fall upon my tinder. From the spark, O bright of beauty, light thy fires and heat thine ovens. In the holder, place the torchlight. Find thy pathway to the stables, there to fill the empty mangers. If thy husband's cows be lowing, if thy brother's steeds be neighing, then the cows await thy coming, and the steeds for thee are calling. Hasten, stooping through the hurdles. Hasten, through the yards and stables. Feed thy husband's cows with pleasure. Feed with care the gentle lamkins. Give the cows the best of clover. Hay and barley to the horses. Feed the calves of lowing mothers. Feed the fowl, the fly to meet thee. Never rest upon the haymow. Never sleep within the hurdles. When the kind are fed and tended, when the flocks have all been watered. Hasten thence, my pretty matron, like the snowflakes to thy dwelling. There a crying babe awaits thee, weeping in his couch neglected. Cannot speak and tell his troubles. Speechless babe and weeping infant cannot say that he is hungry, whether pain or cold distresses greets with joy his mother's footsteps. Afterward repair in silence to thy husband's rooms and presents. Early visit thou his chambers, in thy hand a golden pitcher, on thine arm a broom of birchwood, in thy teeth a lighted taper, and thyself the fourth in order. Sweep thou then thy hero's dwelling, dust his benches and his tables. Wash the flooring well with water. If the baby of thy sister play alone within his corner, show the little child attention, bathe his eyes and smooth his ringlets, give the infant needed comforts. Should thou have no bread of barley, in his hand adjust some trinket. Lastly, when the week has ended, give thy house a thorough cleansing. Benches, tables, walls, and ceilings. What of dust is on the windows? Sweep away with broom of birch twigs. All thy rooms must first be sprinkled, at the dust may not be scattered, may not fill the halls and chambers. Sweep the dust from every crevice. Leave thou not a single atom. Also sweep the chimney corners. Do not then forget the rafters, lest thy home should seem untidy, lest thy dwelling seem neglected. Here, O maiden, what I tell thee, learn the tenor of my teaching. Never dress in scanty raiment, let thy robes be plain and comely, ever wear the whitest linen, on thy feet wear tidy fur shoes, for the glory of thy husband, for the honor of thy hero. Tend thou well the sacred sorbetree, guard the mountain ashes planted in the courtyard widely branching, beautiful the mountain ashes, beautiful their leaves and flowers, still more beautiful the berries. Thus the exiled one demonstrates, that she lives to please her husband, tries to make her hero happy. Like the mouse, have ears for hearing, like the hare, have feet for running, bend thy neck and turn thy visage, like the juniper and aspen, thus to watch with care thy goings, thus to guard thy feet from stumbling, that thou mayest walk in safety. When thy brother comes from plowing, and thy father from his garners, and thy husband from the woodlands, from his chopping thy beloved, give to each a water basin, give to each a linen towel, speak to each some pleasant greeting. When thy second mother hastens, to thy husband's home in kindred, in her hand a cornmeal measure, haste thou to the court to meet her, happy-hearted, bow before her, take the measure from her fingers, happy, bear it to thy husband. If thou shouldst not see distinctly what demands thy next attention, ask at once thy hero's mother. Second mother, my beloved, name the task to be accomplished, by thy willing second daughter, tell me how to best perform it. This should be the mother's answer, this the manner of thy workings, thus thy daily work accomplish, stamp with diligence and courage, grind with will and great endurance, set the millstones well in order, fill the barley pans with water, knead with strength the dough for baking, place the faggots on the fireplace, that thy ovens may be heated, bake in love the honey biscuit, bake the larger loaves of barley, rinse to cleanliness thy platters, polish well thy drinking vessels. If thou hearst from the mother, from the mother of thy husband, that the cask for meal is empty, take the barley from the garners, hasten to the rooms for grinding, when thou grindest in the chambers, do not sing in glee and joyance, turn the grinding stones in silence, to the mill give up thy singing, let the sideholes furnish music. Do not sigh as if unhappy, do not groan as if in trouble, lest the father think thee weary, lest thy husband's mother fancy, that thy groan's mean discontentment, that thy sighing means displeasure. Quickly sift the flour thou grindest, take it to the casks in buckets, bake thy hero's bread with pleasure, knead the dough with care and patience, that thy biscuits may be worthy, that the dough be light and airy. Shouldst thou see a bucket empty, take the bucket on thy shoulder, on thine arm a silver dipper, hasten off to fill with water from the crystal river flowing. Gracefully thy bucket carry, bear it firmly by the handles, hasten houseward like the zeffers, hasten like the air of autumn, do not tarry near the streamlet, at the waters do not linger, that the father may not fancy, nor the ancient dame imagine, that thou hast beheld thine image, hast admired thy form and features, hast admired thy grace and beauty in the mirror of the fountain, in the crystal streamlet's eddies. Shouldst thou journey to the woodlands, there to gather, hasten faggots, do not go with noise and bustle, gather all thy sticks in silence, gather quietly the birch wood, that the father may not fancy, and the mother not imagine, that thy calling came from anger and thy noise from discontentment. If thou goest to the storehouse, to obtain the flower of barley, do not tarry on thy journey, on the threshold, do not linger, that the father may not fancy, and the mother not imagine, that the meal thou hast divided with the women of the village. If thou goest to the river, there to wash thy birchen platters, there to cleanse thy pans and buckets, lest thy work be done in neatness, rinse the sides and rinse the handles, rinse thy pitchers to perfection, spoons and forks and knives and goblets, rinse with care thy cooking vessels, closely watch the food utensils, that the dogs may not deface them, that the kittens may not mar them, that the eagles may not steal them, that the children may not break them. Many children in the village, many little heads and fingers, that will need thy careful watching, lest they steal the things of value. When thou goest to thy bathing, have the brushes ready lying in the bathroom, clean and smokeless. Do not linger in the water, at thy bathing do not tarry, that the father may not fancy, and the mother not imagine, thou art sleeping on the benches, rolling in the laps of comfort. From thy bath when thou returnest, to his bathing tempt the father, speak to him the words that follow, Father of my hero husband, clean are all the bathroom benches, everything in perfect order, go and bathe for thine enjoyment, pour the water all sufficient, I will lend thee needed service. When the time has come for spinning, when the hours arrive for weaving, do not ask the help of others, look not in the stream for knowledge, for advice ask not the servants, nor the spindle from the sisters, nor the weaving comb from strangers. Thou thyself must do the spinning, with thine own hand, ply the shuttle. Loosely wind the skeins of wool yarn, tightly wind the balls of flax thread, wind them deftly in the shuttle, fit the warp upon the rollers, beat the wolf and warp together, swiftly ply the weaver's shuttle. Weave good cloth for all thy vestments, weave of woollen webs for dresses, from the finest wool of lambkins, one thread only in thy weaving. Here thou, what I now advise thee, brew thy beer from early barley, from the barley's new-grown kernels, brew it with the magic virtues, malt it with the sweets of honey, do not stir it with the birch-rod, stir it with thy skillful fingers. When thou goest to the garners, do not let the seed bring evil, keep the dogs outside the brew-house, have no fear of wolves and hunger, nor the wild beasts of the mountains, when thou goest to thy brewing, shouldst thou wander forth at midnight. Should some stranger come to see thee, do not worry for his comfort. Ever does the worthy household have provisions for the stranger, bits of meat and bread and biscuit, ample for the dinner table. Seat the stranger in thy dwelling, speak with him in friendly accents, entertain the guest with kindness while his dinner is preparing. When the stranger leaves thy threshold, when his farewell has been spoken, lead him only to the portals, do not step without the doorway, that thy husband may not fancy, and the mother not imagine, thou hast interest in strangers. Shouldst thou ever make a journey to the center of the village, there to gain some needed object. While thou speakest in the hamlet, let thy words be full of wisdom, that thou shamest not thy kindred, nor disgrace thy husband's household. Village maidens oft will ask thee, mothers of the hamlet, question. Does thy husband's mother greet thee, as in childhood thou were treated, in thy happy home in Poya? Do not answer in negation, say that she has always given thee the best of her provisions, given thee the kindest greetings, though it be but once a season. Listen well to what I tell thee. As thou goest from thy father, to thy husband's distant dwelling, thou must not forget thy mother, her that gave thee life and beauty, her that nurtured thee in childhood, many sleepless nights she nursed thee. Often were her wants neglected, numberless the times she rocked thee. Tender, true, and ever-faithful is the mother to her daughter. She that can forget her mother, can neglect the one that nursed her, should not visit man as castle, in the kingdom of Tuoni. In Manala she would suffer. Suffer frightful retribution, should her mother be forgotten. Should her dear one be neglected, man as daughters will torment her, and Tuoni sons revile her. They will ask her much as follows. How couldst thou forget thy mother, how neglect the one that nursed thee? Great the pain thy mother suffered, great the trouble that thou gaveest, when thy loving mother brought thee into life for good or evil, when she gave the earth existence, when she nursed thee but an infant, when she fed thee in thy childhood, when she taught thee what thou knowest. Man as punishments upon thee, since thy mother is forgotten. On the floor a witch was sitting, near the fire a beggar woman, one that knew the ways of people. These the words the woman uttered. Thus the crow calls in the winter, would that I could be a singer, and my voice be full of sweetness. But alas, my songs are worthless, cannot charm the weakest creature. I must live without the singing, leave the songs to the musicians, those that live in golden houses, in the homes of the beloved. Homeless therefore I must wander, like a beggar in the cornfields. And with none to do me honor. Hear now, sister, what I tell thee. Enter thou thy husband's dwelling. Follow not his mind nor fancies, as my husband's mind I followed. As a flower was I when budding, sprouting like a rose in springtime, growing like a slender maiden, like the honey gem of glory, like the playmates of my childhood, like the goslings of my father, like the blue ducks of my mother, like my brother's water-younglings, like the bullfinch of my sister. Grew I like the heather-flower, like the berry of the meadow, played upon the sandy seashore, rocked upon the fragrant upland, sang all day a down-the-valley, thrilled with song the hill and mountain, filled with mirth, the glen, and forest, lived and frolic'd in the woodlands. Into traps are foxes driven, by the cruel pangs of hunger, into traps the cunning ermine. Thus are maidens wooed and wedded, in their hunger for a husband. Thus created is the virgin, thus intended is the daughter, subject to her hero-husband, subject also to his mother. Then to other fields I hastened, like a berry from the border, like a cranberry for roasting, like a strawberry for dinner. All the elm-trees seemed to wound me, all the aspins tried to cut me, all the willows tried to seize me, all the forest tried to slay me. Thus I journeyed to my husband, thus I travelled to his dwelling, was conducted to his mother. Then there were, as was reported, six compartments, built of pinewood, twelve the number of the chambers, and the mansion filled with garrets. Studying all the forest border, every byway filled with flowers, streamlets bordered fields of barley, filled with wheat and corn, the islands, grain in plenty in the garners, rye unthrashed in great abundance, countless sums of gold and silver, other treasures without number. When my journey I had ended, when my hand at last was given, six supports were in his cabin, seven poles as rails for fencing, filled with anger were the bushes, all the glens disfavor showing, all the walks were lined with trouble, evil tempered were the forests. Hundred words of evil import, hundred others of unkindness, did not let this bring me sorrow, long I sought to merit praises, long I hoped to find some favor, strove most earnestly for kindness. When they led me to the cottage, there I tried some chips together, knocked my head against the portals, of my husband slowly dwelling, at the door were eyes of strangers, sable eyes at the partition, green with envy in his cabin, evil heroes in the background, from each mouth the fire was streaming, from each tongue the sparks outflying, flying from my second father, from his eyeballs of unkindness. Did not let this bring me trouble, tried to live in peace and pleasure in the homestead of my husband. In humility I suffered, skipped about with feet of rabbit, flew along with steps of ermine, late I laid my head to slumber, early rose as if a servant, could not win a touch of kindness, could not merit love nor honor, though I had dislodged the mountains, though the rocks had I torn open. Then I turned the heavy millstone, ground the flower with care and trouble, ground the barley grains in patience, that the mother might be nourished, that her fury throat might swallow, what might please her taste and fancy, from her gold enameled platters, from the corner of her table. As for me, the hapless daughter, all my flower was from the siftings, on the table near the oven, ate I from the birch and ladle. Oftentimes I brought the mosses, gathered in the lowland meadows, baked them into loaves for eating, brought the water from the river, thirsty, sipped it from the dipper, ate of fish, the worst in Northland, only smelts and worthless swimmers, rocking in my boat of birch bark, never ate I fish or biscuit, from my second mother's fingers. Blades I gathered in the summers, twisted barley stalks in winter, like the laborers of heroes, like the servants sold in bondage. In the thresh-house of my husband, evermore to me was given, flail the heaviest and longest, and to me the longest lever, on the shore the strongest beater, and the largest rake in haying. No one thought my burden heavy, no one thought that I could suffer, though the best of heroes faltered, and the strongest women weakened. Thus did I, a youthful housewife, at the right time, all my duties, drenched myself in perspiration, hoped for better times to follow. But I only rose to labor, knowing neither rest nor pleasure. I was blamed by all the household, with ungrateful tongues derided, now about my awkward manners, now about my reputation, centering my name and station. Words unkind were heaped upon me, fell like hail on me unhappy, like the frightful flash of lightning, like the heavy hail of springtime. I did not despair entirely, would have lived to labor longer, underneath the tongue of malice, but the old one spoiled lay temper, roused my deepest ire in hatred. Then my husband grew a wild bear, grew a savage wolf of Hesse. Only then I turned to weeping, and reflected in my chamber, thought of all my former pleasures, of the happy days of childhood, of my father's joyful firesides, of my mother's peaceful cottage, then began I thus to murmur. While thou knowest ancient mother, how to make thy sweet bud blossom, how to train thy tender chute-lit, did not know where to engraft it, place to last, the little scion, in the very worst of places, on an unproductive hillock, in the hardest limb of cherry, where it could not grow and flourish, there to waste its life in weeping, hapless in her lasting sorrow. Worthier had been my conduct, in the regions that are better, in the courtyards that are wider, in compartments that are larger, living with a loving husband, living with a stronger hero. Shoe of birch bark was my suitor, shoe of lap lenders, my husband, had the body of a raven, voice and visage like the jack-daw, mouth and claws were from the black wolf, the remainder from the wild bear. Had I known that my affianced was a fount of pain and evil, to the hillside I had wandered, been a pine tree on the highway, been a linden on the border, like the black earth made my visage, grown a beard of ugly bristles, head of loam and eyes of lightning, for my ears the knots of birches, for my limbs the trunks of aspens. This the manner of my singing, in the hearing of my husband, thus I sang my cares and murmurs, thus my hero near the portals heard the wail of my displeasure. Then he hastened to my chamber. Straightway knew I by his footsteps, well concluded he was angry, knew it by his steps implanted. All the winds were still in slumber, yet his sable locks stood and wise, fluttered round his head in fury, while his horrid mouth stood open. To and fro his eyes were rolling, in one hand a branch of willow, in the other club of alder. Struck at me with might of malice, aimed the cudgel at my forehead. When the evening had descended, when my husband thought of slumber, took he in his hand a whipstalk, with a whiplash made of deerskin, was not made for any other, only made for me unhappy. When at last I begged for mercy, when I sought a place for resting, by his side I courted slumber, merciless my husband seized me, struck me with his arm of envy, beat me with a whip of torture, deerskin lash, and stalk of birch wood. From his couch I leaped impulsive, in the coldest night of winter, but the husband, fleetily followed, caught me in the outer portals, grasped me by my streaming tresses, tore my ringlets from my forehead, cast in curls upon the night winds, to the freezing winds of winter. What the aid that I could ask for, who could free me from my torment? Made I shoes of magic metals, made the straps of steel and copper, waited long without the dwelling, long I listened at the portals, hoping he would end his ravings, hoping he would sink to slumber, but he did not seek for resting, did not wish to still his fury. Finally the cold benumbed me, as an outcast from his cabin, I was forced to walk and wander, when I, freezing well reflected, this the substance of my thinking. I will not endure this torture, will not bear this thing forever, will not bear this cruel treatment, such contempt I will not suffer, in the wicked tribe of Hesse, in this nest of evil Piru. Then I said, farewell forever, to my husband's home and kindred, to my much-loved home and husband. Started forth upon a journey, to my father's distant hamlet, over swamps and over snowfields, wandered over towering mountains, over hills and through the valleys, to my brother's welcome meadows, to my sister's home and birthplace. There were rustling withered pine trees, finally feathered furs were fading, countless ravens there were cawing, all the jackdaws harshly singing, this the chorus of the ravens. Thou hast here a home no longer, this is not the happy homestead of thy merry days of childhood. Heating not this woodland chorus, straight I journeyed to the dwelling of my childhood's friend and brother, where the portals spake in concord and the hills and valleys answered, this their saddened song and echo. Wherefore dost thou journey hither, comest thou for joy or sorrow to thy father's old dominions? Here unhappiness awaits thee, long departed is thy father, dead and gone to visit Uko, dead and gone thy faithful mother, and thy brother is a stranger, while his wife is chill and heartless. Heating not these many warnings, straight way to my brother's cottage, where my weary feet directed, laid my hand upon the door latch of my brother's dismal cottage. But the latch was cold and lifeless. When I wandered to the chamber, when I waited at the doorway, there I saw the heartless hostess, but she did not give me greeting, did not give her hand in welcome. Proud alas, was I unhappy, did not make the first advances, did not offer her my friendship, and my hand I did not proffer. Layed my hand upon the oven, all its former warmth departed. On the coal I laid my fingers, all the latent heat had left it. On the rest bench lay my brother, lay outstretched before the fireplace, heaps of soot upon his shoulders, heaps of ashes on his forehead. Thus the brother asked the stranger, questioned thus his guest politely. Tell me what thy name and station, whence thou comest or the waters? This the answer that I gave him. Hast thou then forgot thy sister, does my brother not remember, not recall his mother's daughter? We are children of one mother, of one bird were we the fledglings, in one nest were hatched and nurtured. Then the brother fell to weeping, from his eyes great teardrops flowing, to his wife the brother whispered, whispered thus unto the housewife, Bring thou beer to give my sister, quench her thirst and cheer her spirits. Full of envy brought the sister, only water filled with evil, water for the infant's eyelids, soap and water from the bathroom. To his wife the brother whispered, whispered thus unto the housewife, Bring thou salmon for my sister, for my sister so long absent, thus to still her pangs of hunger. Thereupon the wife obeying brought in envy, only cabbage, that the children had been eating, and the house dogs had been licking, leavings of the black dog's breakfast. Then I left my brother's dwelling, hastened to the ancient homestead, to my mother's home deserted. Onward, onward did I wander, hastened onward by the cold sea, dragged my body on in anguish, to the cottage doors of strangers, to the unfamiliar portals, for the care of the neglected, for the needy of the village, for the children poor and orphaned. There are many wicked people, many slanderers of women, many women evil-minded, that malign their sex through envy. Many they with lips of evil, that belie the best of maidens, prove the innocent are guilty of the worst of misdemeanors. Speak aloud in tones unceasing, speak alas with wicked motives, spread the follies of their neighbors through the tongues of self-pollution. Very few indeed the people that will feed the poor and hungry, that will bid the stranger welcome. Very few to treat her kindly, innocent and lone and needy, few to offer her a shelter, from the chilling storms of winter, when her skirts with ice are stiffened, coats of ice her only raiment. Never in my days of childhood, never in my maiden lifetime, never would believe the story, though a hundred tongues had told, though a thousand voices sang it, that such evil things could happen, that such misery could follow, such misfortune could befall one who has tried to do her duty, who has tried to live uprightly, tried to make her people happy. Thus the young bride was instructed, beautyous maiden of the rainbow, thus by Osmatar, the teacher. The Brides Farewell Osmatar, the bride instructor, gives the wedding guests this council, speaks these measures to the bridegroom. Ilmarinen, artist brother, best of all my hero brothers, of my mother's sons the dearest, gentlest, truest, bravest, grandest, listen well to what I tell thee, of the maiden of the rainbow, of thy beautyous life companion, bridegroom, praise thy fate hereafter, praise forever thy good fortune. If thou praisest, praise sincerely, good the maiden thou hast wedded, good the bride that Uko gives thee, graciously has God bestowed her. Sound her praises to thy father, praise her virtues to thy mother, let thy heart rejoice in secret, that thou hast the bride of beauty, lovely maiden of the rainbow. Brilliant near thee stands the maiden, at thy shoulder thy companion, happy under thy protection, beautiful as golden moonlight, beautiful upon thy bosom, strong to do thy kindly bidding, labour with thee as thou wishest, rake the hay upon thy meadows, keep thy home in full perfection, spin for thee the finest linen, weave for thee the richest fabrics, make for thee the softest raiment, make thy weavers loom as merry as the cuckoo of the forest, make the shuttle glide in beauty like the ermine of the woodlands, make the spindle twirl as deftly as the squirrel spins the acorn, village maidens will not slumber while thy young bride's loom is humming, while she plies the graceful shuttle. Bridegroom of the bride of beauty, noblest of the Northland heroes, forge thyself aside for mowing, furnish it with oak and handle, carve it in thine ancient smithy, hammer it upon thine anvil, have it ready for the summer, for the merry days of sunshine, take thy bride then to the lowlands, mow the grass upon thy meadows, break the hay when it is ready, make the reeds and grasses rustle, toss the fragrant heads of clover, make thy hay in Kalevala, when the silver sun is shining. When the time has come for weaving, to the loom attract the weaver, give to her the spools and shuttles, let the willing loom be worthy, beautiful the frame and settle, give to her what may be needed, that the weaver's song may echo, that the lathe may swing and rattle, may be heard within the village, that the aged may remark it, and the village maidens question, who is she that now is weaving? What new power now plies the shuttle? Make this answer to the question, it is my beloved weaving, my young bride that plies the shuttle. Shall the weaver's weft be loosened, shall the young bride's loom be tightened? Do not let the weft be loosened, nor the weaver's loom be tightened, such the weaving of the daughters of the moon beyond the cloudlets, such the spinning of the maidens of the sun in high Jumala, of the daughters of the great bear, of the daughters of the evening. Bridegroom, thou beloved hero, brave descendant of thy father, when thou ghost on a journey, when thou drivest on the highway, driving with the rainbow daughter, fairest bride of Sariola, do not lead her as a tit-mouse, as a cuckoo of the forest, into unfrequented places, into copses of the borders, into briar fields and brambles, into unproductive marshes. Let her wander not nor stumble on opposing rocks and rubbish, never in her father's dwelling, never in her mother's courtyard, has she fallen into ditches, stumbled hard against defences, run through briar fields nor brambles, fallen over rocks nor rubbish. Magic bridegroom of Vainola, wise descendant of the heroes, never let thy young wife suffer, never let her be neglected, never let her sit in darkness, never leave her unattended, never in her father's mansion, in the chambers of her mother, has she sat alone in darkness, has she suffered for attention, sat she by the crystal window, sat and rocked in peace and plenty, evenings for her father's pleasure, mornings for her mother's sunshine, never may a stow, O bridegroom, lead the maiden of the rainbow, to the mortar filled with seagrass, there to grind the bark for cooking, there to bake her bread from stubble, there to knead her dough from tan bark, never in her father's dwelling, never in her mother's mansion, was she taken to the mortar, there to bake her bread from seagrass. Thou shouldst lead the bride of beauty, to the garners rich abundance, there to draw the till of barley, grind the flour and knead for baking, there to brew the beer for drinking, wheat and flour for honey biscuits. Hero bridegroom of Vainola, never cause thy bride of beauty, to regret her day of marriage, never make her shed a teardrop, never fill her cup with sorrow, should there ever come an evening, when thy wife shall feel unhappy, put the harness on thy razor, hitch the fleet foot to her snow sled, take her to her father's dwelling, to the household of her mother, never in thy hero lifetime, never while the moonbeams glimmer, give thy fair spouse evil treatment, never treat her as thy servant, do not bar her from the cellar, do not lock thy best provisions, never in her father's mansion, never by her faithful mother, was she treated as a hireling. Honoured bridegroom of the Northland, proud descendant of the fathers, if thou treatest well thy young wife, worthily wilt thou be treated, when thou goest to her homestead, when thou visitest her father, thou shalt meet a cordial welcome. Censure not the bride of beauty, never grieve thy rainbow maiden, never say in tones reproachful, she was born in lowly station, that her father was unworthy, honoured are thy bride's relations, from an old time tribe, her kindred, when of corn they sowed a mesher, each one's portion was a kernel, when they sowed a cask of lax seed, each received a thread of linen. Never, never magic husband, treat thy beauty bride and kindly, teach her not with lash of servants, strike her not with thongs of leather, never has she wept in anguish, from the birch whip of her mother, stand before her like a rampart, be to her a strong protection, do not let thy mother chide her, let thy father not afraid her, never let thy guests offend her, should thy servants bring annoyance, they may need the master's censure, do not harm the bride of beauty, never injure her thou lovest, three long years has thou been wooing, hoping every month to win her. Counsel with the bride of heaven to thy young wife give instruction, kindly teach thy bride in secret, in the long and dreary evenings, when thou sittest at the fireside, teach one year in words of kindness, teach with eyes of love a second, in the third year teach with firmness, if she should not heed thy teaching, should not hear thy kindly counsel, after three long years of effort, cut a reed upon the lowlands, cut a nettle from the border, teach thy wife with harder meshers. In the fourth year, if she heed not, threaten her with sterner treatment, use the stalks of rougher edges, use not yet the thongs of leather, do not touch her with a birch whip. If she does not heed this warning, should she pay thee no attention, cut a rod upon the mountains or a willow in the valleys, hide it underneath thy mantel, that the stranger may not see it, show it to thy wife in secret, shame her thus to her duty. Strike not yet, though disobeying. Should she disregard this warning, still refuse to heed thy wishes, then instruct her with a willow, use the birch rod from the mountains, in the closet of thy dwelling, in the attic of thy mansion. Strike her not upon the common, do not conquer her in public, lest the villagers should see thee, lest the neighbours hear her weeping, and the forests learn thy troubles. Touch thy wife upon the shoulders, let her stiffened back be softened. Do not touch her on the forehead, nor upon the ears nor visage. If a ridge be on her forehead or a blue mark on her eyelids, then her mother would perceive it, and her father would take notice. All the village workmen see it. And the village women ask her, Has thou been in heat of battle? Has thou struggled in a conflict, or perchance the wolves have torn thee, or the forest bears embraced thee, or the black wolf be thy husband? And the bear be thy protector? By the fireplace lay a grey beard, on the hearth stone lay a beggar, and the old man's fake as follows. Never, never, hero husband, follow thy young wife's wishes, follow not her inclinations, as alas I did regretful, bought my bride the bread of barley, veal and beer and best of butter, fish and fowl of all descriptions. Beer I bought, home brewed and sparkling, weed from all the distant nations, all the dainties of the Northland. All of this was unavailing. Gave my wife no satisfaction. Often came she to my chamber, tore my sable locks in frenzy, with a visage fierce and frightful, with her eyeballs flashing anger, scolding on and scolding ever, ever speaking words of evil, using epithets the vilest, thought me but a block for chopping. Then I sought for other measures, used on her my last resources, cut a birch whip in the forest, and she spake in tones endearing, cut a juniper or willow, and she called me hero darling. When with lash my wife I threatened, hung she on my neck with kisses. Thus the bridegroom was instructed, thus the last advice is given. Then the maiden of the rainbow, beautyous bride of Vilmarinen, sighing heavily and moaning, fell to weeping, heavy-hearted, spake these words from depths of sorrow. Near indeed the separation, near alas the time for parting, near the time for my departure, oh the anguish of the parting, oh the pain of separation, from these walls renowned and ancient, from this village of the Northland, from these scenes of peace and plenty, where my faithful mother taught me, where my father gave instruction to me in my happy childhood, when my years were few and tender. As a child I did not fancy, never thought of separation, from the confines of this cottage, from these dear old hills and mountains. But alas I now must journey, since I now cannot escape it, empty is the bowl of parting, all the farewell beer is taken, and my husband's sledge is waiting, with a breakboard looking southward, looking from my father's dwelling. How shall I give compensation, how repay on my departure, all the kindness of my mother, all the counsel of my father, all the friendship of my brother, all my sister's warm affection? Gratitude to thee, dear father, for my former life and blessings, for the comforts of thy table, for the pleasures of my childhood. Gratitude to thee, dear mother, for thy tender care and guidance, for my birth and for my culture, nurtured by thy purest lifeblood. Gratitude to thee, dear brother, gratitude to thee, sweet sister, to the servants of my childhood, to my many friends and playmates. Never, never, aged father, never thou beloved mother, never ye my kindred spirits, never harbour care nor sorrow, never fall to bitter weeping, since thy child has gone to others, to the distant home of strangers, to the meadows of Waenola. From her father's fields and firesides shines the sun of the Creator, shines the golden moon of Okko, glitter all the stars of heaven, in the firmament of Ether, full as bright on other homesteads, not upon my father's uplands, not upon my home in childhood, shines the star of joyans only. Now the time has come for parting from my father's golden firesides, from my brother's welcome hearthstone, from the chambers of my sister, from my mother's happy dwelling. Now I leave the swamps and lowlands, leave the grassy veils and mountains, leave the crystal lakes and rivers, leave the shores and sandy shallows, leave the white-capped surging billows where the maiden swim and linger, where the mermaids sing and frolic, leave the swamps to those that wander, leave the cornfields to the ploughmen, leave the forests to the weary, leave the heather to the rover, leave the copses to the stranger, leave the alleys to the beggar, leave the courtyards to the rambler, leave the portals to the servant, leave the matting to the sweeper, leave the highways to the robuck, leave the woodland glens to lynxes, leave the lowlands to the wild geese, and the birch tree to the cuckoo. Now I leave these friends of childhood, journey southward with my husband, to the arms of night and winter, or the ice-grown seas of Northland. Should I once again returning, pay a visit to my tribefolk? Mother would not hear me calling, father would not see me weeping, calling at my mother's gravestone, weeping o'er my buried father, on their graves the fragrant flowers, junipers and mournful willows, verdure from my mother's tresses, from the graybeard of my father. Should I visit Sariola, visit once again these borders? No one here would bid me welcome. Nothing in these hills would greet me, save pertains a few things only, buy the fence a clump of ossears, and a landmark at the corner, which in early youth I planted, when a child of little stature. Mother's kind perhaps will know me, which so often I have watered, which I oft have fed and tended, lowing now at my departure, in the pasture cold and cheerless, sure my mother's kind will welcome Northland's daughter home returning. Father's steeds may not forget me, steeds that I have often ridden, when made in free and happy, neighing now for me departing. In the pasture of my brother, in the stable of my father, sure my father's steeds will know me, bid Poyola's daughter welcome. Brother's faithful dogs may know me, that I oft have fed and petted, dogs that I have taught to frolic, that now mourn for me departing, in their kennels in the courtyard, in their kennels cold and cheerless, sure my brother's dogs will welcome Poyola's daughter home returning. But the people will not know me, when I come these scenes to visit, though the fords remain as ever, though unchanged remain the rivers, though untouched the flaxen fishnets on the shores await my coming. Fear thou well, my dear old homestead, fear ye well my native bowers, it would give me joy unceasing could I linger here forever. Now, farewell ye halls and portals, leading to my father's mansion, it would give me joy unceasing could I linger here forever. Fare ye well, familiar gardens, filled with trees and fragrant flowers, it would give me joy unceasing could I linger here forever. Send to all my farewell greetings, to the fields and groves and berries, greet the meadows with their daisies, greet the borders with their fences, greet the lakelets with their islands, greet the streams with trout disporting, greet the hills with stately pine trees and the valleys with their birches. Fare ye well, ye streams and lakelets, fertile fields and shores of ocean, all ye aspens on the mountain, all ye lindens of the valleys, all ye beautiful stone lindens, all ye shade trees by the cottage. All ye junipers and willows, all ye shrubs with berries laden, waving grass and fields of barley, arms of elms and oaks and alders. Fear ye well, dear scenes of childhood, happiness of dais departed. Ending thus, Poyola's daughter left her native fields and fallows, left the dark-sum Sarjola with her husband, Elmarinen, famous son of Kalevala. But the youth remained for singing. This the chorus of the children. Hither came a bird of evil, flew in fleetness from the forest, came to steal away our virgin, came to win the maid of beauty, took away our fairest flower, took our mermaid from the waters, won her with his youth and beauty, with his keys of ancient wisdom. Who will lead us to the sea-beach, who conduct us to the rivers? Now the buckets will be idle, on the hooks will rest the fish-poles. Now unswept will lie the matting, now unswept the halls of birchwood, copper goblets be unburnished, dark the handles of the pitchers. Fear thou well, dear rainbow maiden. Elmarinen, happy bridegroom, hastened homeward with the daughter of the hostess of Poyola, with the beauty of the Northland, fleetly flew the hero's snow-sledge, loudly creaked and roared and rattled, down the banks of Northland waters, by the side of Honey Inlet. On the back of Sandy Mountain, stones went rolling from the highway, like the winds the sledge flew onward. On the yoke rang hoops of iron, loud the spotted wood resounded, loudly creaked the bands of willow, all the birch and crossbars trembled, and the copper bells rang music in the racing of the fleet-foot. In the coarser's gallop homeward journeyed one day, then a second, journeyed still the third day onward, in one hand the reins of magic, while the other grasped the maiden, one foot resting on the crossbar, and the other in the fur-robes. Merrily the steed flew homeward, quickly did the highways shorten, till it last upon the third day, as the sun was fast declining, there appeared the blacksmith's furnace, nearer Ilmarinen's dwelling, smoke rising high in ether, clouds of smoke to lofty heaven from the village of Vynola, from the suitor's forge and smithy, from the chimneys of the hero, from the home of the successful. End of Rune 24 Rune 25 of The Kalivala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Kalivala, compiled by Elias Longrut, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 25 Vayne Moynen's Wedding Songs At the home of Ilmarinen, Long had they been watching, waiting for the coming of the blacksmith, with his bride from Sarriola. Wiry were the eyes of watchers, waiting from the father's portals, looking from the mother's windows. Wiry were the young knees standing at the gates of the magician. Wiry grew the feet of children, trampling to the walls and watching, worn and torn the shoes of heroes, running on the shore to meet him. Now at last, upon a morning, of a lovely day in winter, heard they from the woods the rumble of a snow-sledge swiftly bounding. Lako, hostess of Vynola, she the lovely Kalev daughter, spake these words in great excitement. Tis the sledge of the magician, comes at last the metal worker from the dismal Sarriola, by his side the bride of beauty. Welcome, welcome to this hamlet. Welcome to thy mother's hearthstone, to the dwelling of thy father, by thine ancestors erected. Straightway came great Ilmarinen, to the cottage drove the blacksmith, to the fireside of his father, to his mother's ancient dwelling. Hazel birds were sweetly singing, on the newly bended collar, sweetly called the sacred cuckoos, from the summit of the breakboard, Mary jumped the graceful squirrel, on the oaken shafts and crossbar, Lako, Kalev's finest hostess, Butcher's daughter of Vynola, spake these words of hearty welcome. For the new moon hopes the village, for the sun the happy maidens, for the boat the swelling water, I have not the moon expected, for the sun have not been waiting, I have waited for my hero, waited for the bride of beauty, watched at morning, watched at evening, did not know, but some misfortune, some sad fate had overtaken bride and bridegroom on their journey. Thought the maiden growing weary, weary of my son's attentions, since he faithfully had promised to return to Kalevala, ere his footprints had departed from the snowfields of his father, every mourn I looked and listened, constantly I thought and wondered, when his sledge would rumble homeward, when it would return triumphant, to his home renowned and ancient. Had a blind and beggard strawhorse hobbled to these shores awaiting, with the sledge of but two pieces, well the steed would have been lauded, had it brought my son, beloved, had it brought the bride of beauty. Thus I waited long, impatient, looking out from mourn till even, watching with my head extended, with my tresses streaming southward, with my eyelids widely opened, waiting for my son's returning, to this modest home of heroes, to this narrow place of resting, finally am I rewarded, for the sledge has come triumphant, bringing home my son and hero. By his side the rainbow maiden read her cheeks her visage winsome, pride and joy of Sarriola, wizard bridegroom of Vanola, take thy corset to the stable, lead him to the well-filled manger, to the best of grain and clover, give to us thy friendly greetings, greetings sent to all thy people, when the greetings thou hast ended, then relate what has befallen to our hero in his absence. Has thou gone without adventure to the dark fields of Pejola? Searching for the maid of beauty, didst thou scale the hostile ramparts? Did thou take the virgin's mansion? Passing o'er her mother's threshold, visiting the halls of Luhi? But I know without the asking, see the answer to my question, comest from the north of Victor, on thy journey well contented. Thou hast brought the Northland daughter, thou hast raised the hostile portals, thou hast stormed the forts of Luhi, stormed the mighty walls opposing on the journey to Pejola, to the village of the father in thy care the bride is sitting. In thy arms the rainbow maiden at thy side, the pride of Northland, mated to the highly gifted, who has told the cruel story, who the worst of news has scattered, that thy suit was unsuccessful, that in vain thy steed had journeyed. Not in vain has been thy wooing, not in vain thy steed has travelled, to the dismal homes of Lapland. He has journeyed heavy laden, shaken mane and tail and forelock, dripping foam from lips and nostrils, through the bringing of the maiden, with the burden of the husband. Come, thou beauty, from the snow-sledge, come to send thou from the crossbench. Do not linger for assistance, do not tarry to be carried, if too young the one that lifts thee, if too proud the one in waiting, rise then graceful like a young bird. Hither glide along the pathway, on the tan-bark scarlet coloured, that the herds of kind have evened, that the gentle lambs have trodden, smoothened by the tales of horses, hast thou here with gentle footsteps, through the pathway smooth and tidy, on the tiles of even surface, on thy second father's courtyard, to thy second mother's dwelling, to thy brother's place of resting, to thy sister's silent chambers, place thy foot within these portals, step across this waiting threshold. Enter thou these halls of joyance, underneath these painted rafters, underneath this roof of ages, during all the winter evenings, through the summer gone forever, saying the tiling made of ivory, wishing thou wouldst walk upon it, often saying the golden ceiling, hoping thou wouldst walk beneath it, and the windows often whistled, asking thee to sit beside them, even on this merry morning, even on the recent evening, sat the aged at their windows, on the seashore ran the children, near the walls the maidens waited, ran the boys upon the highway, there to watch the young brides coming, coming with her hero husband, Haley courtiers of Vanola, with the heroes of the fathers, Hale to thee, Vanola's hamlet, Hale ye halls with heroes peopled, Hale ye rooms with all your inmates, Hale to thee, sweet golden moonlight, Hale to thee, benign and uko, Hale companions of the bridegroom, Never has there been in Northland such a wedding-train of honour, Never such a bride of beauty, Bridegroom thou beloved hero, Now untie the scarlet ribbons, And remove the silken muffler, Let us see the honey maiden, See the daughter of the rainbow, Seven years hast thou been wooing, Hast thou brought the maid afianced, Hast thou sought a sweeter cuckoo, Sought one fairer than the moonlight, Sought a mermaid from the ocean, But I know without the asking, See the answer to my question, Thou hast brought the sweet-voiced cuckoo, Thou hast found the swan of beauty, Pluck the sweetest flower of Northland, Culled the fairest of the jewels, Cathered poacher's sweetest berry, Sat a babe upon the matting, And the young child's bakers' follows. Brother, what is this thou bringest? Aspenloch or trunk of willow, Slender as the mountain linden? Bridegroom, well dost thou remember, Thou hast hoped in all thy lifetime, Hope to bring the maid of beauty Thou a thousand times hast said it, Better far than any other, Not one like the croaking raven, Nor the magpie from the border, Nor the scarecrow from the cornfields, Nor the vulture from the desert. What has this one done of credit In the summer that has ended? Where the gloves that she has knitted, Where the mittens she has woven, Thou hast brought her empty-handed, Not a gift she brings thy father, In thy chests the mice are nesting, Long tales feeding on my vestments, And the bride cannot repair them. Lakko, hostess of Vanola, She the faithful Kalev daughter, He is the young child's speech in wonder, Speaks these words of disapproval, Silly prattler, cease thy talking, Thou hast spoken in dishonour, Let all others be astonished, Reap thy malice on thy kindred, Must not harm the bride of beauty, Rainbow daughter of the Northland. False indeed is this thy prattle, All thy words are full of evil, Fallen from thy tongue of mischief, From the lips of one unworthy, Excellent the hero's young bride, Best of all in Sarriola, Like the strawberry in summer, Like the daisy from the meadow, Like the cuckoo from the forest, Like the bluebird from the aspen, Like the red breast from the heather, Like the martin from the linden. Never quits thou find in Estland such a virgin as this daughter, Such a graceful, beautyous maiden, With such dignity of carriage, With such arms of pearly whiteness, With a neck so fair and lovely. Neither is she empty-handed, She has brought us furs abundant, Brought us many silken garments, Richest weavings of pejola. Many beautious things the maiden With the spindle has accomplished, Spun and woven with her fingers. Dresses of the finest texture, She in winter has upfolded, Bleached them in the days of springtime, Dried them at the hour of noonday, For our couches finest linen, For our heads the softest pillows, For our comfort woollen blankets, For our necks the silken ribbons. To the bride speaks gracious larko, Goodly wife, thou maid of beauty. Highly work thou praised as daughter In thy father's distant country. Here thou shalt be praised forever By the kindred of thy husband. Thou shalt never suffer sorrow, Never give thy heart to grieving. In the swamps thou work not Nurtured, work not fed beside the brooklets. Thou work born Neath stars suspicious, Nurtured from the richest garners. Thou work taken to the brewing Of the sweetest beer in Northland, Futures bride from Sarriola. Shouldst thou see me bringing hither Casks of corn, or wheat, or barley? Bringing rye in great abundance? They belong to this thy household, Good the plowing of thy husband, Good his sowing, and his reaping, Bride of beauty from the Northland. Thou wilt learn this home to manage, Learn to labour with thy kindred, Good the home for thee to dwell in, Good enough for bride and daughter. At thy hand will rest the milk Pale, and the churn awaits thine order. It is well here for the Maiden. Happy will the young bride labour. Easy are the resting Benches. Here the host is like thy father. Like thy mother is The hostess. All the sons are like thy brothers, Like thy sisters are the daughters. Shouldst thou ever have a Longing, for the whiting of the ocean, For thy father's Northland Salmon, for thy brother's hazel chickens? Ask then only of thy Husband. Let thy hero-husband bring them. There is not in all of Northland, not a creature of the forest, Not a bird beneath the aether, not a fish within the waters, Not the largest nor the smallest, that thy husband cannot capture. It is well here for the Maiden. Here the bride may live in freedom. Need not turn the heavy millstone. Need not move the iron pestle. Here the wheat is ground by water. For the rye the swifter currant, while the billows wash the vessels, and the surging waters rinse them. Thou hast here a lovely village, Finest spot in all the Northland. In the lowlands sweet the verger, in the uplands fields of beauty, With the lake shore near the hamlet, near thy home the running water, Where the Goslings swim and frolic water-birds to sport in numbers. Thereupon the bride and bridegroom were refreshed with richest vians. Given food and drink abundant, Fed on choicest bits of reindeer, on the sweetest loaves of barley, On the best of wheat and biscuits, on the richest beer of Northland, Many things were on the table, Many dainties of vanilla, In the bowls of scarlet colour, in the platters deftly painted, Many cakes with honey sweetened, To each guest was butter given, Many bits of trout and whiting, Larger salmon carved in slices, With the knives of molten silver, Rimmed with gold the silver handles, Beer of barley ceaseless flowing, Honey-drink that was not purchased, In the cellar flows profusely, Beer for all, the tongues to quicken, Mead and beer the minds to freshen, Who is there to lead the singing, Lead the songs of Kalevala, Vain a moinen, old and truthful, The eternal wise enchanter, Quick begins his incantations. Straightway sings the songs that follow, Golden brethren, dearest kindred, Ye my loved ones, wise and worthy, Ye companions highly gifted, Listen to my simple sayings, Rarely stand the geese together, Sisters do not mate each other, Not together stand the brothers, Nor the children of one mother, In the countries of the Northland. Shall we now begin the singing, Sing the songs of old tradition? Singers can but sing their wisdom, And the cuckoo call the springtime, And the goddess of the heavens Only dies the earth in beauty, So the goddesses of weaving Can but weave from dawn till twilight, Ever sing the youth of Lapland In their straw shoes full of gladness, When the coarse meat of the Robuck, Or of blue moose they have eaten. Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children not be chanting Of the biscuits of Vanola, Of the bread of Calave waters? Even sing the lads of Lapland In their straw shoes filled with Joints, Drinking but a cup of water, Eating but the bitter tanbark. Wherefore should I not be Singing, And the children not be chanting Of the beer of Calavala, Brewed from barley in perfection? Dressed in quaint and homely costume, As they sit beside their Hearthstones? Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children too be chanting Underneath these painted rafters In these halls renowned and ancient? This the place for men to linger, This the courtroom for the maidens, Near the foaming beer of barley, Honey-brewed in great abundance, Very near the salmon waters, Near the nets for trout and whiting? Here, where food is never Wanting? Where the beer is ever brewing? Here, Vanola's sons assemble? Here, Vanola's daughters gather? Here, they never eat in trouble? Here, they live without regretting? In the lifetime of the landlord, While the hostess lives and prospers? Who shall first be sung and Lorded? Shall it be the bride or bridegroom? Let us praise the bridegroom's father, Let the hero host be chanted? Him whose home is in the forest? Him who built upon the mountains? Him who brought the trunks of lindens? With their tops and slender branches? Brought them to the best of places? Joined them skillfully together? For the mansion of the nation? For the famous hero-dwelling? Walls procured upon the lowlands? Rafters from the pine and fir tree? From the woodlands beams of oak wood? From the berry plains the studying? Bark was furnished by the aspen? And the mosses from the fenlands? Trimly-builded is this mansion? In a haven warmly sheltered? Here a hundred men have laboured? On the roof have stood a thousand? As this spacious house was building? As this roof was tightly jointed? Here the ancient mansion-builder where these rafters were erected? Lost in storms his locks of sable? Scattered by the winds of heaven? Often has the hero-landlord on the rocks his gloves forgotten? Left his heart upon the willows? Lost his mittens in the marshes? Oftentimes the mansion-builder in the early hours of morning ere his workmen had awakened? Unperceived by all the village? Has arisen from his slumber? Left his cabin in the snow-fields? Combed his locks among the branches? Bathe his eyes in dues of morning? Thus subtained the pleasant landlord friends to fill his spacious dwelling? Fill his benches with magicians? Fill his windows with enchanters? Fill his halls with wizard-singers? Fill his floors with ancient speakers? Fill his ancient court with strangers? Fill his hurdles with the needy? Thus the Kalev host is lauded? Now I praise the genial hostess, who prepares the toothsome dinner? Fills with plenty all her tables? Bakes the honeyed loaves of barley? Needs the dough with magic fingers? With her arms of strength and beauty Bakes her bread in copper ovens? Feeds her guests and bids them welcome? Feeds them on the toothsome bacon? On the trout and pike and whiting? On the rarest fish in ocean? On the dainties of Vanola? Often has the faithful hostess? Risen from her couch in silence? Air the crowing of the watcher to prepare the wedding banquet? Make her tables look attractive? Brew the honeyed beer of wedlock? Excellently has the housewife? Has the hostess filled with wisdom? Brewed the beer from hops and barley? From the corn of Kalevala? From the wheat-mulled honey seasoned? Sturred the beer with graceful fingers at the oven in the penthouse? In the chamber swept and polished? Neither did the prudent hostess beautiful and full of wisdom let the barley sprout to freely? Lest the beer should taste of black earth? Be too bitter in the brewing? Often went she to the garners? Went alone at hour of midnight? Was not frightened by the black wolf? Did not fear the beasts of woodlands? Now the hostess I have lauded? Let me praise the favoured suitor? Now the honoured hero bridegroom best of all the village masters? Clothed in purple is the hero, rain-ment brought from distant nations, tightly fitting to his body snuggly sets his coat of ermine. To the floor it hangs in beauty, trailing from his neck and shoulders, little of his vest appearing, peeping through his outer rain-ment, woven by the moon's fair daughters, and his vestment silver-tinsled. Dressed in neatness is the suitor, round his waist a belt of copper, hammered by the sun's sweet maidens ere the early fires were lighted, ere the fire had been discovered. Dressed in richness is the bridegroom, on his feet are silken stockings, silken ribbons on his ankles, gold and silver interwoven. Dressed in beauty is the bridegroom, on his feet are shoes of deerskin, like the swans upon the water, like the blue duck on the sea-waves, like the thrush among the willows, like the water-birds of Northland. Well adorned the hero's suitor, with his locks of golden colour, with his gold-bid finely braided, hero-hat upon his forehead, piercing through the forest branches, reaching to the clouds of heaven, brought with countless gold and silver, priceless is the suitor's headgear. Now the bridegroom has been lauded, I will praise, the young bride's playmate. Day companion in her childhood, in the maiden's magic mansion, whence was brought the merry maiden from the village of Tenica, whence was never brought the playmate, playmate of the bride in childhood. Has she come from distant nations, from the waters of the Dwine, o'er the ocean far outstretching? Not from Dwine came the maiden. Did not sail across the waters, grew as berry in the mountains, as a strawberry of sweetness, on the fields the child of beauty. In the glens the golden flower, thence has come the young bride's playmate, thence arose her fair companion, tiny are her feet and fingers, small her lips of scarlet colour, like the maiden's loom of swami, eyes that shine in kindly beauty, like the twinkling stars of heaven. Beam the playmate's throbbing temples, like the moonlight on the waters, trinkets has the bride's companion, on her neck a golden necklace, in her tresses silken ribbons, on her arms are golden bracelets, golden rings upon her fingers, pearls are set in golden earrings. Loops of gold upon her temples, and with pearls her brow is studded, Northland thought the moon was shining when her jewellered earrings glistened, thought the sun had left his station when her girdle shone in beauty, thought a ship was homeward sailing when her coloured headgear fluttered. Thus is praise the bride's companion, playmate of the rainbow maiden. Now I praise the friends assembled. All appear in graceful manners. If the old are wise and silent, all the youth are free and merry. All the guests are fair and worthy. Never was there in Vainola. Never will there be in Northland such a company. Assembled all the children speak in joints, all the aged move sedately. Dressed in white are all the maidens, like the whorefrost of the morning, like the welcome dawn of springtime, like the rising of the daylight. Silver then was more abundant, gold among the guests in plenty. On the hills were money, pockets, money bags along the valleys. For the friends that were invited, for the guests in joy assembled, all the friends have now been lauded, each has gained his mead of honour. Vayner Moynen, old and truthful song-deliverer of Northland, swung himself upon the fur bench, on his magic sledge of copper, straightway hastened to his hamlet, singing as he journeyed onward, singing charms and incantations, singing one day then a second, all the third-day chanting legends, on the rocks the runners rattled, hung the sledge upon a birch stump, broke it into many pieces with the magic of his singing, double were the runners bended, all the parts were torn asunder, and his magic sledge was ruined, then the good old Vayner Moynen spake these words in meditation. Is there one among this number, in this rising generation, or perchance among the aged, in the passing generation, that will go to Manor's kingdom, to the empire of Tononi, there to get the magic auger, for the master of Manala, that I may repair my snow sledge, or a second sledge may fashion? What the younger people answered was the answer of the aged, not among the youth of Northland, nor among the aged heroes, is there one of ample courage, that has bravery sufficient to attempt the reckless journey to the kingdom of Tononi, to Manala's fields and castles, then to bring Tononi's auger, wherewith all to mend thy snow sledge, build anew thy sledge of magic, whereupon old Vayner Moynen, the eternal wisdom singer, went again to Manor's empire to the kingdom of Tononi, crossed the sable stream of Deathland to the castles of Manala, found the auger of Tononi, brought the instrument in safety, straightway sings old Vayner Moynen, sings to life a purple forest, in the forest slender birches, and beside them mighty oak trees, shapes them into shafts and runners, moulds them by his will and power, makes anew his sledge of magic, on his steed he lays the harness, binds him to his sledge securely, seats himself upon the crossbench, and the racer gallops homeward, to the manger filled and waiting, to the stable of his master, brings the ancient Vayner Moynen, famous bard and wise enchanter, to the threshold of his dwelling, to his home in Calavala.